Long Way Down
by Jules1993
Summary: Set one year after the season 3 finale. A mission in Syria goes awry for Peter Quinn. It's up to Carrie and Saul to rescue him before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

'Fuck'. Peter Quinn was a man that kept his cool. He wore a steely ice mask. He did not let his emotions slip out. He did his job with a lot of blood on his hands. And he kept his cool. Until now.

Three Lav 25 armored vehicles were approaching with heavily armed Jijhads. Machine guns were slung over their shoulders, as they made way for the CIA's safe-house. In the sizzling Syrian heat, a trickle of sweat finally escaped him. His hands did not shake because he was intimidated. They shook for what they were going to do to her.

'Situation has gone South. We need back-up, I repeat, we need backup.' Quinn roared through his ear piece. He knelt on the ground and grabbed his sniper rifle. Adjusting it to his eyesight, he started shooting with only one thought dominating his fading facade. _Carrie. _

He had heard about the atrocities committed on both sides of the table. The Syrian troops did their fair share of raping and looting, but the Jihadists had their own dark tales to tell. In countless briefs with Saul, he had heard, on repeated occasions, about the savage jihads. Their hatred for America was outspoken and captured in the media on countless occasions as they purposefully burnt American flags to the ground. They wreaked recent havoc in Iraq, executing thousands of Iraqi troops. Quinn was not a man that picked sides. He knew his country was not a knight in shining armour either. On the orders of his country, he had slaughtered innocents too. Yet when it boiled down to protecting national security and interests, things turned ugly. Death and blood spill on both sides of the coin.

Quinn started to tune out his mind. He flexed his fingers and rested them on the trigger. He knew he was a goddamn-good shot. _One. Two. Third motherfucker. _He silently smirked to himself. The jihads responded with relentless aggression. A bullet ripped into his shoulder. But he carried on like a machine. For her. The pain spread quickly, weakening his grip on the rifle.

'Quinn. Come back inside.' Carrie was screaming for him, but he ignored her pleas. Inside they were good as dead. For now, the jihads only knew of one shooter. Carrie was still invisible to them. And he had to keep it that way. Quinn decided to stop shooting because it was pointless. They were fast-approaching and he couldn't stop them. There were too many of them. His mind switched to survival mode. He ran towards Carrie as bullets sprayed around him. He grabbed onto her shoulder.

'Shit Quinn they shot you.' worry etched Carrie's eyes but there was no fear in them. She had come face-to-face with Abu Nazir. She had first-handedly witnessed the love of her life be executed amongst a cheering crowd. Carrie was not easily scared and suddenly he admired her even more. Fear paralyses people and panic is what chokes you. Its like a noose that wrapps around your neck, squeezing away your rationality. But not her. Carrie was strong.

'I'm ok.' Quinn said dismissively. He gestured toward the dry well, 50 meters at the back of the house. 'We are running out of time Carrie. They think I'm the only one occupying this house. Let's keep it that way. I need you to hide in the well.'

'What?! And let you get captured? No fucking way Quinn.'

'Carrie for once I need you to switch off that genius brain of yours and start thinking like a human being. You have a 1 year old daughter. A sister and a father who would be devastated if your life ended like this. Now go. There's no more time.' Quinn spoke calmly, despite the fact that he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Why is she so adamant?

'You have a son. And the mother of your child-'

'They think I'm dead' Quinn interrupted her, his eyes turning a shade darker. It had been better that way. He had staged his death, like many black ops agents before him. That way, Julia would stop waiting for him to come home.

'What?' Carrie choked out.

'Carrie, you have to do this. For your little girl, Stella.' Quinn urged.

Slow tears streamed down Carrie's face. Her face was finally breaking as the fear took over in her eyes, like a deer caught between the headlights. He wanted to brush them away. But he felt himself weakening as the blood spilled out of his bullet wound. He attempted a wry smile. There were a thousand ways he could have ended this. He knew he might be in love with her. He knew he was most likely never going to see her again. Yet for now, all he could think of was a simple gesture. He reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

'Quinn please-'

'For fucks sake Carrie, Run!' He shouted. She backed away, her steps unsteady.

'Carrie' He warned urgently. Carrie lost her words. She nodded slowly.

'Alright Quinn. Alright.' Her words shook. He knew she was smart and she had put two and two together. At last. He felt his calmness crumble before him.

As if sensing his spirit drift away, Carrie spoke her last words fiercely to him. 'The only reason why I am going is because if they have us both, I can't trust lockhart will care enough to find us. Like this, I can put pressure on him. I'll find you, I promise. And we will kill every last one of them.' And with that promise, Carrie turned around and broke into a run. He watched her disappear. Her dark blue head-scarf slipped down, and her blonde hair loosened. A silk of blonde rustled in the wind, and then nothing. _ She's safe now. That's all that matters _he told himself.

What Quinn should have done was shoot himself. End his life and end the pain to come. As the Jihads approached him, he knew they were going to torture him. Slowly and painfully until they got every last detail out of him. His mission was more important. He grabbed his shot-gun and placed the nuzzle against his forehead. He gazed out at the infinite blue sky and closed his eyes. His fingers wrapped themselves around the trigger. Quinn pulled. And then nothing. _Shit. I used up the bullets. _Horror dawned on him. He had no time to reload. The men climbed out of the truck and ran up to him, screaming in Arabic. One of them approached him with slick black hair, raised the machine gun and struck him in the head. He felt himself falling, black dots dancing around him. He struggled against their hold and pulled out his boot knife. Managed to knife one of them. And then someone else struck him.

'We need him alive.'

He felt himself being dragged into one of the trucks. They thrust him inside and pulled out plastic ties. One of them purposefully threw him on the ground and then applied pressure to his shoulder. The pain threatened to pull him into unconsciousness. Yet not a single sound escaped him. He was a trained black ops agent. He knew pain. After they tied his hands, they flipped him over aggressively and then restrained his ankles.

'We bring you to Hussain.' One of them spoke to Quinn in Arabic. Quinn replied in the same language saying, 'do what you want with me, but you're not getting anything out of me.' One of them smirked as he ripped out a long strip of duct tape and pressed it firmly over Quinn's mouth, silencing him effectively. He pulled out a camera and started filming.

'Whether CIA or not, you are American. We will make sure that your government see that Americans have no power over us. They can't stop us' The rebel laughed as he thrust the camera in front of Quinn's face. _Oh great, I'm going to be on television, _Quinn told himself sarcastically. _Guess I better do my part. _

Quinn summoned his last bit of energy and kicked with all his strength at one of the jihads. He screamed in agony as he fell out of the moving truck. His triumph was short-lived. Quinn saw the butt of a gun thrust toward his face and then blackness overtook him.


	2. Chapter 2

**One Week Earlier**

'The Isis insurgents in Iraq are getting out of control. North of Baghdad has fallen. What's more is that they are growing in numbers and are are using social media apps to recruit extremists from all over the world. To name but a few, The UK, Israel, France, Germany are struggling to keep up. Many young Muslims are joining this extreme Jihad movement. Syria's border with Iraq remains a key strategic point for the Isis insurgency. Many of them receive weapons, military equipment, and tanks from the same Jihads that are fighting against Assad. We figure, if we cripple them from the border, their grip on Iraq will weaken.' Saul was debriefing the team. He momentarily took out his glasses and polished them on his shirt. Quinn knew this was Saul's way of showing how fucked up the situation was.

'Iraq has come back to bite us in the ass.' Carrie couldn't help but let the words slip out. She was never the type to beat around the bushes. Quinn couldn't help but smirk a little.

'The sectarian violence in Iraq does, in part have to do with our involvement in Iraq. But, it's our job to clean this up as quietly as possible. No ugly mess for the media to pick up, got it?' The team nodded. Saul had hand-picked the best team, on Lockhart's orders nonetheless. As soon as he got that phone call, late at night in Corfu, he knew it was serious. He had followed the news. He knew the public's faith in the government was wavering. Iraq was a bloody mess and the US was mostly responsible for it. Saul had immediately accepted Lockhart's plea on one condition- he wanted Carrie, Quinn and the bright-eyed Fara on his side.

'Sabir will handle the location of the safe house. He's turned.' Saul's words were met with silence. Quinn's eyes immediately locked with Carrie's. _Saul's infamous interrogation skills. _

'How can we be sure?' Fara spoke up. The young analyst was still not grounded with Saul's techniques.

'Saul turned Javadi, didn't he?' Quinn said quietly. This time, it was Carrie who smirked.

Saul, being the good Samaritan he was, ignored Fara's question and pushed on. 'Sabir will be our eyes and ears inside the Jihad movement. He knows the border well. He's attended the meetings and knows about the supply route. All we need to do, is make sure that he continues on with his role and remains wired to our communications 24/7. Carrie and Quinn will monitor his conversations at the safe-house. For now, we need to know about their military strategy so we can tackle the Isis insurgency from within Iraq. Any questions?'

Again the team fell silent. Quinn studied Saul's expression. His serious frown was marked with something else. Quinn's instincts puzzled him. Was that disbelief rooted in Saul's eyes? Was he questioning Sabir's loyalty? It was as if a cold chill had entered the room and a shiver crawled its way up Quinn's spine. Yet he quickly shook the thought away. He wasn't stupid. He knew what he signed up for.

**Present**

Carrie sat in front of the computer at the CIA's base in Akcakale, a town hinging at the border of Syria and Iraq. The cheap fan in the room was barely doing its job as a trickle of sweat rested at the nape of her neck. Lockhart was to contact her any minute now.

The sound of the ticking clock consumed her concentration. Whilst her training had kicked in and a pervading calmness overwashed her, her mind was not at peace. Earlier memories kept replaying, tormenting her conscience. She carried the memory of Quinn's deathly pale face as the blood seeped out of his shoulder. What haunted her in particular was that his eyes were lost- all hope dead. He knew, he knew there was no escape, no way out. He did the only thing he knew. Operate in survival mode. Push her to safety and offer himself as a scapegoat.

The mere thought of what he was enduring at the very moment she was fortunate enough to be sitting here, unharmed, killed her. She was left to pick up the pieces after they took him.

She had climbed out of the well in the 45 degree Syrian heat, using only the cracks in the rocks to maneuver her way up. As soon as she reached the top, she howled herself and her bloody nails over the well and collapsed on the ground, in a flood of desperate tears. A panic attack consumed her then. She had only experienced it twice before, after she had witnessed Brody die in front of her and at his funeral. It had taken her a few minutes to calm her heart. Afterwards, disoriented and dehydrated, Carrie checked around the safe house for any lurking Jihads, and instead found Saul and a local agent, Amir, searching for her. When Saul saw her ripped trousers and bloody hands, the only words that escaped him were 'Oh Carrie'.

Saul had debriefed her about the scenario. Sabir had been reckless. One night he had slipped out of his assigned bunk, claiming he needed to relieve himself outside in the open air. He instead made way to his jeep. He wanted to slip away, whilst everyone slept and the two guards on watch were switching shifts, to the safe-house and deliver some urgent news. One of the men saw him attempt to leave, and then brought him in for questioning. Sabir broke. He gave up the safe-house, claiming he had received in-tail from other Jihads on the move that American troops were occupying the house.

The mission was for now salvaged. Yet the burden lay now on Quinn to keep quiet.

Saul shuffled into the room, breaking Carrie away from her dark thoughts.

'Saul' she said shortly.

'Lockhart's line is coming through. You ready?' Saul asked. Carrie nodded slowly.

'We need to be quick. Quinn doesn't have much time.' Sadness filled her eyes as she heard her words bounce back at her. _He's dying as we speak. _

'Carrie, I'm warning you not to expect much from Lockhart. He came to me with the idea of the mission. You know how quickly he pulls out if things go South.' Saul tried to ease the blow that was to come. He knew what Lockhart was going to say. One black-ops agent against an entire mission that hinged on the future state of Iraq? Unlikely that the man would send reinforcements for Quinn. He himself had made some impossible decisions regarding Brody. Once caught, it was more difficult for an agent to get rescued.

Carrie was a smart woman. She knew deep down what Lockhart was going to say. But she was waiting for him to dare say those words to her. She only said had one thing to say to Saul.

'I promised him Saul. I promised him we would get him back. After breaking my promise about returning Brody home, I am not going to live with another lie. Not to mention the guilt. Fuck no. Quinn's coming out of this alive whether Lockhart likes it or not.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for not having posted a new chapter in so long. I have been traveling for the past two months and have not had a computer with me. To make it up to you, this chapter is long, and the next one will already be up tomorrow. The events in this story correspond to what is going on in Iraq now with the ISIS insurgency. If you haven't been following the news, then this story is a good way to keep you updated as well :) I hope you all like it!**

A nauseating cloud washed over him as he came to. His vision spun as he tried to adjust his eyes to the sharp light blinding him. His head throbbed as he remembered where he was and what was going to happen to him.

Quinn's wrists hung from rope tied in a loop over the ceiling beam. His feet barely touched the floor. The rope had lacerated his wrists, releasing a dam of blood that streamed down his arms. The room was empty, except for a long wooden table, a chair and a bucket of water. His shoulder was wrapped in tight cloth, holding off the blood for now. _They want to play with me before they kill me, _Quinn noted silently. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or laugh about it.

The Syrian heat gave him no relief and he could feel his sweat and blood blend into one happy cocktail. The tape over his mouth was uncomfortable and sticky, cutting off his wish to groan in pain.

Small symptoms of fear started to creep toward him, waiting to pounce. Fear was not an emotion Quinn was familiar with. After all, he was trained to kill, to take someone's life away with one clean bullet. He dealt with terrorists and drug lords- crooked criminals of the worst kind. He had been shot twice before on the job and yet he did not fear death's presence on his front porch. He was made of bullet and steel. Or so he thought.

He hadn't had the chance to tell Carrie how he felt about her. Carrie, the crazy one, yet tough as a mountain. Her sarcasm and never-ending ability to connect the dots left the CIA's tail between its legs. Her intelligence and wit was a force to be reckoned with. Yet there was also fragility in Carrie, embedded deeply in her grey blue eyes. The CIA agent was emotional and rational, righteous and sinful, fearful and courageous at the same time. She was hot and cold and she drove him mad with desire. Despair lurked in the dark corners of Quinn's mind. If only he could take back those minutes that slipped through the cracks he would have taken her face in his hands and would have kissed her. One last goodbye, the proper way.

Yet the cold reality was all too different. He had bled before her as he waited to be taken. His condition had forced Carrie to make another empty promise to him. As if she didn't have enough on her plate already. Quinn had first handedly witnessed her shatter as she had struggled to come to terms with her broken promise to Brody. He had seen the empty void in Carrie's eyes staring into space at work. Quinn knew all too well that her daughter, Stella, was a painful everyday reminder of Brody. He was there at the hospital when Carrie delivered her baby girl to her sister's arms, as if she were a package to be sent to the post office. _Oh Carrie. _Her face haunted him.

Distant voices in Arabic dragged him back to the present moment. _Focus on getting out of here_ he told himself. With the last bit of strength he could muster, Quinn flipped around and wrapped his legs on the beam. Hanging upside down, Quinn ignored his dizzy spell as he set to work. He attempted to rotate his wrists to loosen the friction. The blood oozed out and he used it to make his hands more slippery.

"What are you doing?" One of the Syrian men had entered the room with a gun. He yelled for backup as he rushed over and aggressively cut the rope from which Quinn hung from.

_Fucking great_ was all Quinn had time to think before his head connected with the ground, his body crashing loudly. His shoulder screamed in agony as waves of black dots surrounded his vision. Quinn struggled to remain conscious as the oily brown-skinned man spoke in fast Arabic.

Two pairs of hands grabbed him aggressively and pushed him upward, dragging him towards the chair. Quinn managed to elbow him in the face as his training kicked in, yet his hands were still tied in front of him. He received a punch in the face, weakening him. His groan was stifled by the tape as they untied his hands and then quickly retied them behind the chair. They then secured his legs to the chair and left the room. Quinn closed his eyes, willing the pain to disappear. He could feel the blood trickling down his head and longed to wipe it away.

Another man entered the room accompanied by three others. He had piercing green eyes that scanned over Quinn, assessing him silently and coldly. A pouch hung from his belly in a mustard-collar shirt, reminding Quinn that he was human after all. He stood on the creaking floorboards, not in any rush. A grin started to form at the edge of his lips, an ironic chuckle. Quinn recognized him from their briefing board. He was Hussain, the leader of the jihad circle, the one that supplied weapons to the ISIS insurgents in Iraq. He was the kind of man who carried out orders from behind a cheap Syrian kebab joint, smoking his cigarettes away as he screamed and lashed out to his fellow workers over the phone.

Without saying a word, one of his jihad associates pulled out a silver camera, the red blinking light reminding Quinn again that he was being filmed. He had seen a few of these cliche videos, with rebels condemning America to death, then tauntingly angling their camera towards their prisoners. Some had been American soldiers, beaten half-to death, their dead eyes watching the camera blankly. More recently, two American journalists had been slaughtered by ISIS insurgents on camera, and the video had been packaged and sent off for the rest of the world to see.

Having seen these videos himself, Quinn knew that the ISIS insurgents did not make empty threats. The fact that these rebels worked for the terrorist network did not faze him too much. Quinn was determined to keep his cool, let them know and anyone else watching that he was not afraid.

The man reached over to where Quinn was sitting and ripped off the tape.

"You must be Hussain", Quinn spoke in Arabic, the words tipping off his tongue. His language was a bit rusty but fluent otherwise.

"I am not here to talk about myself. After all, you are our guest."

Quinn couldn't help but snort. "Thank you for your hospitality. You've been so accommodating".

Hussain's smile hardened.

"We suspect you are CIA. And we want answers."

"Answers." Quinn let those words drip in sarcasm.

"We have an infinite amount of time at our hands. And you're not going anywhere." Hussain spoke calmly, with a flat tone. He was a man void of emotion. Yet there was a sense of ruthlessness about him, hardened in his face. Quinn had dealt with men like him before. He had ended their life without flinching. There was murder in Hussain's eyes and Quinn did not doubt for one second that he had no value for human lives.

One of the jihad fighters brought over another chair and Hussain sat across from Quinn. The camera zoomed in on him.

"Here is my theory. The Americans aren't happy that we are supplying the ISIS insurgency in Iraq. So they send over their CIA puppets to regain control. Correct me if I'm wrong…"

Quinn knew how important it was to remain emotionless and with a blank face. Hussain knew more than they had believed. He was not a man that could be bullshitted to easily. Yet neither was Quinn.

"I don't know what you are talking about.' Quinn said neutrally, almost as if he was bored with the questions. "Why don't you just get down to business already." He added listlessly.

"I was hoping you would say that. I know CIA agents are trained to withstand torture. But we the jihads are a little different. We will see." Hussain rose from the chair and turned to his men.

"50 lashes to start off with. He's still strong." And with that Hussain left the room.

Quinn watched him go, his eyes darkening. He knew it was coming. His heart pounded in his chest as a sense of impending doom paralyzed him.

The men reached down and untied him. One of them thrust a gun at his face.

"If you try to escape we will put a bullet in each leg. Understood?" The rebel hissed.

Quinn was silent. His eyes coldly scanned the room, assessing his chances of escaping. The windows were boarded up with blocks of wood. The room was sealed off, except for a small doorway that led to god knows where. Judging by the unbearable heat and the silence surrounding the house, they must be somewhere in the desert. Even if he were to get past the rebels, he would be exposed in open space. Without water Quinn knew his chances were very slim.

Disappointment caved in and Quinn felt his legs buckle from weakness. The man grabbed on to him and dragged him back to the centre of the room. This time they used thin wire to hang him up. The wire cut into his skin, producing fresh blood.

"Trussed up like an animal ready for slaughter" Quinn said sarcastically. One of the men grinned as he lit a cigarette. He motioned for the other rebel to come closer. He was shielding an object from Quinn, but he caught a flash of metal at the corner of his eyes. A metal rod.

"Predictable." Quinn said flatly. The rebel walked closer to Quinn, glaring at him. Leaning over, the man blew smoke in his face. Quinn didn't flinch.

"We need to film this. Aamir start recording again." And with one nod, a young boy, no older than 16 appeared in front of Quinn, camera ready at hand.

"Halim, start.': The rebel ordered. Halim crept behind Quinn and without pausing, lashed at his back.

The pain was instant. It rushed up his spine and Quinn resisted the urge to groan. Halim was efficient. The second blow came. Then the third. Fourth. The pain was unbearable, and a whimper escaped his lips. He cursed himself quietly. He couldn't look weak. Not in front of that camera. Who knew in what television station his face would appear in. Or worse, if they decided to leak it onto their social media webpage, thousands of young people could be watching it this very minute, some in horror, some in awe.

The room started to blur in front of him and he closed his eyes momentarily. Fire, to depths of hell and back, rubbed at his skin. Hot blood poured out of him and he cried out in pain. His vision swam in and out of focus, and he willed himself to pass out already.

"25" Halim counted. _Twenty, fucking five _Quinn groaned in horror. Another lash, and another. Each blow was calculated, delivered with the same amount of strength. The whip stopped momentarily and Quinn was grateful for the break. The teenage boy, Aamir came up close to him, with the camera's red blink assessing his face.

The boy spoke softly, "Who are you working for? What is your mission?" His questions were futile. Quinn shook his head silently. All he could muster was a "Fuck off" in his native tongue. Aamir gave the go-ahead and the lashes continued. Soon after, Quinn mercifully passed out.

* * *

"We've been scanning the Jihad rebel's official Facebook page. You're going to want to see this, Carrie' Fara tried to remain calm, but her words shook as she spoke. She was not trained to watch such horrors, let alone witness one of her own endure such agony. Carrie sprang from the chair, her eyes wild with anticipation as she followed Fara to the living room. Saul was pacing across the room, deep in thought. As soon as he saw Carrie, his composure crumbled for a fraction of a second.

"It's bad Carrie." It was the only warning he could give to her. Fara gestured to her laptop and Carrie sat down, her hand shaking as she pressed play.

Quinn was hanging from a ceiling beam, groaning in pain. The lashes were loud and meticulous. There was blood everywhere. Streaming down his arms, down his face, and a small pool of blood surrounded his bare feet. Carrie put a hand over her mouth, nausea and horror threatening to tear her apart.

"Fuck. This is so fucked up." She heard them interrogate him, _who are you working for? _Quinn responded in his calm voice, _fuck off. _And then the lashes continued. One, two three. He passed out after the fifth. Horrified, Carrie pushed the laptop away from her. Saul watched her silently.

"We didn't show you but there's more. Apparently, the jihad leader, Hussain Alim, thinks Quinn is CIA. In other words, we are fucked. We haven't been compromised yet, but we will soon be. Lockhart rang a few minutes ago. He's seen the video too."

Carrie willed herself to remain calm. She took a deep breath in. She knew Quinn was in trouble. She had seen other CIA agents get caught and filmed whilst being tortured. She thought she was accustomed to seeing such brutalities. But Quinn... it made her stomach churn, her blood boil, and her legs weaken. She wanted to scream in despair and smash the walls with her fists. The panic and helplessness consumed her.

"Carrie? Are you ok?" Fara asked hesitantly. She placed a reassuring hand over Carrie's shoulder. 'Just take a deep breath.'

Carrie listened to Fara's instructions, fending off her upcoming panic attack. She snatched a glance at Saul. The former CIA director's face was a shade paler. He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead with his hands. A sign of distress.

Carrie knew why he had brought up Lockhart. But she willed it not too be true.

"Let me guess. Lockhart thinks the damage is too much. We shouldn't even bother with Quinn, right? After all he has no real identity. He doesn't exist. Black ops agents can be eliminated. We can all just pretend that man over there is not Peter Quinn. He's just some unlucky bastard caught in a bad moment, at a bad time." The words tumbled out of her, tripping over her coherence as her heart pace quickened. She had promised him she would get him out. She had looked into his hopeless eyes, and gave him a shred of hope. She wasn't gonna turn her back on him now.

"Yes. That's exactly what Lockhart thinks. He's CIA director, not me. He can't bend the rules without the government hounding him. We can tread the lines. We will get him back. If we work together, us three, we might be able to save him in time." Saul finally decided to speak with an authoritative tone. His strength and leadership was coming back in waves. Saul lived through crisis after crisis. He could handle anything. He had stepped over Lockhart before. And he could certainly outwit him again.

Carrie was nodding franticly. "Yes that's what we are going to do. We're going to come up with a plan. And we need to work quickly. Fara, see if we can get anything from the video feed. Anything at all that might bring us to Quinn. Also monitor the comments."

Fara nodded, as she quickly grabbed the laptop and got to work.

"And one more thing. Now that Quinn's face is exposed for all the world to see, we need to protect his identity as much as we can. He needs to stay anonymous. Got it?" Carrie directed the question to Fara, the CIA's computer master. She could pull anything off.

"I can get the media channels to block out his face. So no one can identify him."

"Good. Do that as fast as you can. We need to keep him out of the spotlight. God help if his family sees this." Carrie paled at the thought alone. If his ex-wife were to see this, thinking he had died, only to realize he was facing a far worse fate would break her. It was too much for anyone to see.

Somehow, Carrie's legs carried her over to the window. She found her gaze wondering, to the busy market street outside. 40 km away from the Syrian border, they were nestled in Turkey. It was their advantage point. Yes, from here they would come up with a plan and execute it in perfect fashion. Quinn was going to survive this. Watching the crowds, hope rose in her chest. They were going to get him out.


	4. Chapter 4

When Quinn came to, he quickly realized he was tied down onto a table. His bloody back was pressed down, searing and burning. The pain was uncontrollable. It watered his eyes and threatened to take him under. Groaning, Quinn knew he had to force his attention away from the agony. He shifted his gaze to the young boy, Aamir who was sprinkling something onto a cloth beside him.

"Who convinced you to join the jihad movement?" The question slipped out of him, unintended. He wasn't sure what effect it had on the boy. Aamir looked up, his brown eyes softening for a fraction of a second. And then just as quickly, his boyish features darkened.

"I have been instructed to not speak to you."

"You're already breaking that rule." Quinn pointed out, flatly.

Aamir stopped what he was doing. He looked around, alert.

"There's no one here. At least answer one question. I'll leave you alone after."

Sighing Aamir's shoulders visibly relaxed.

"Assad's security forces killed my father and brother for protesting against government corruption. We lost our income. My mother and my three sisters became dependent on me for survival. And then civil war broke out. The Jihad movement reached Damascus. One day, I ran into a group on the street. They were recruiting men. I befriended one of them. Deciding I could trust him, I told him my story. They then promised me two things."

"Revenge and an income." Quinn guessed.

"They are my family now. We look out for each other." Aamir's words did not waver. He was a believer of the extreme islamic group. They had been his salvation.

"The jihads are not much better then Assad." Quinn muttered.

"We give lives, and we take lives. We must compromise for our movement to work. We must eliminate threats. And you my friend, are a threat." Aamir spoke matter-of-factly, as if he were reciting a quote from memory. The propaganda was drilled into his young mind. The jihads used Aamir's naiveness and grief to taint his thoughts, to convince him that killing and torturing could be justified. And then it dawned on Quinn that he wasn't far off from Aamir. Had he not been trained by his government to eliminate threats to his country? Had he not put bullet after bullet in men that the CIA deemed bad? Quinn was a killer too.

"How do you know I'm a threat?" Quinn asked. Aamir shook his head, unwilling to answer anymore of his questions. He then called out, through the door. A moment later, Hussain walked in. He stood poised like a man who owned the world. Smoke blew out of his nostrils as a cigarette dangled from his fat fingers.

"So glad to see you are back with us." Hussain commented, grinning. "I am sure you are familiar with water boarding, yes?"

Quinn didn't need to answer. The fear in his chest grew, constricting his throat, ready to burst through his calm facade. He found himself tugging at the wires that bound his wrists to the table, blood squirting out, pinning him down. The metallic smell of his own life, draining away paralyzed his mind. Quinn's fate rested in the hands of this greasy Muslim. Even if he were freed, his energy levels were dangerously low. Quinn calculated that it had been over 24 hours since he had drank water or eaten. The crushing heat, and his injuries further blended into the perfect cocktail of helplessness.

Hussain motioned for Aamir to come closer. He placed a bucket of water, in plain sight for Quinn to see.

"You see, this will not be your ordinary water boarding adventure. We've crushed a sweet little chili for you to inhale as well. It will be like you are drowning in watered chillies." Hussain found himself smiling again. He leaned over, cigarette in hand, and without waiting for Quinn to reply, stubbed the cigarette out onto his shoulder.

Quinn bit his lips from groaning. The searing burn was only an addition to his blue and numb body. He furrowed his brows and stared angrily at Hussain.

"You know you are not getting any answers. So why waste your time with these charades? Why not kill me already?" He spat out in Arabic.

"Because I want you, as an American, to be begging for death by the time I finish you. And I want your execution caught on camera. That way we can truly commemorate the American who tried to undermine us." Hussain grabbed the cloth Aamir was holding, and pointed at the bucket.

"Pour a little by little. Not a whole load, we don't want to kill him." Hussain was teaching a 16 year old boy to drown a man without killing him. The whole thing was so fucked up, that he could hardly believe it himself.

Before Quinn could protest, Hussain clamped a rag over his mouth and nose. The powdered chillies were fire. They spread through his nostrils, and into his lungs. The cloth muffled his cries of pain, and then water came, cold and rushing, trickling and seeping in, blocking out all sources of oxygen. Quinn fought for a long time, his wrists banging at the ends of the table. But it was too much. His eyes burnt mercilessly, his lungs screamed for oxygen and he found himself inhaling the water. Instantly coughing and gagging, the cloth was lifted for a fraction of a second. Gulping in sweet precious oxygen, his relief was short-lived as the rag was clamped back on. Water again poured into him. Blackness teased his lines of vision, and for a moment, he thought he saw Carrie, her blonde hair parted down, her eyes shining as she smiled her don't-fucking-mess-with-me grin.

For what felt like an eternity, Quinn was coughing and choking, the burning pain making him thrash against his torn back. His line of vision edged more than once and in that second, he longed to die. He longed for it so bad that tears, mixed with the chilies, streamed down his eyes. And then it stopped. Heaving, Quinn found himself tilting to the side, and puking his guts out. There was nothing left in him to throw up, only water. Leaning back again, Quinn's eyes locked with Hussain's. His coal brown eyes were cold and hard, unfazed by his torturous agony.

"When did you first join the CIA?" Hussain asked, dangerously quiet, that he could barely hear.

Quinn didn't need to answer. He just shook his head.

"You are wasting your time. Kill me now, kill me later, you are not getting any answers." And then Quinn smiled, a crazy smile, at the futile hopelessness of it all.

Hussain did not find it funny. A fist connected with his face, and then another. Blood spurted out of Quinn's lips. He spit it out.

"You punch like a girl" He smirked. Acting on instinct, Quinn lifted himself an inch off the table, and with full force, head butted Hussain in the face.

The Muslim pulled back, groaning in pain as a rush of blood spread down his face.

"FUCKING AMERICAN." He screamed. "Amir, fill up the bucket. It's time our guest begs for death."

Quinn's eyes widened in comprehension. No, not again. He hated the feeling of the water, clogging up his lungs. And the chillies blinded his ability to see.

"Oh and bring the camera out. I want this one online and running in the next half an hour." Hussain ordered. Quinn caught a flicker of something in Aamir's eyes, was it pity? It was gone seconds later, as Aamir left the room.

Maybe he could use this little man to escape. The sudden thought of leaving this hellhole, quickened his heart beat in anticipation. If death wouldn't come today, he had to try and at least escape. He owed it to himself to at least try.

The blinking camera was thrust in his face, once again, documenting his suffering.

"Again!" Hussain shouted. Once again, the rag was placed over his mouth and nose, cutting away his oxygen. The cold rush of water splashed on his face, trickled through the cloth. _Don't choke, don't choke, don't- _Quinn coughed, and inhaled in the watered chili. Red black dancing spots faded in and out of his vision. This time it was his son that he saw. It was his last image of him, before he had left in the dead of night. Joe had been 11 months old then. He had fat pudgy cheeks, curly brown hair, and deep blue eyes he had inherited from his father. Quinn had kissed him on the head, had left him in his crib, and walked out of his playroom for the last time. It had been the only way to keep his family safe, to spare them from the pain and the lies.

Blackness was at the edge of his vision, and then he heard a shout, "Stop." The rag was lifted and the image of Joe faded away. The flow of oxygen soothed his burnt out lungs, but did nothing to stop Quinn's pain. It was everywhere, in his shoulder, his ripped back, his lungs. It consumed him whole.

He had no energy left to speak. Resting against the table, Quinn barely processed the fact that they had untied him from the table. He rolled to his side and fell onto the floor, mercilessly away from where he had puked.

The smell of smoke hit his lungs. Hussain was smoking again. A boot pressed down on his back, and then with force, kicked him onto his back. Groaning in agony, Quinn looked up. Hussain was half-smiling, as he inhaled the smoke. Eyes clouding over, he knelt down, until he was almost level to level with Quinn.

"Did you enjoy the swim?" The words tipped off Hussain's tongue lazily.

Quinn decided not to speak. He wouldn't give the fucker the satisfaction.

"Halim just discovered something very interesting. The videos we have posted of you, they are all covered. No one can recognize your face."

Realization sunk in. _Carrie. _This time, it was his turn to smile. _Score one for the CIA. _At least they have given him some sort of dignity. And his anonymity. That was the one thing Quinn held close to him. It was all he had.

He decided to give the bastard a piece of his mind. "Instead of spending time capturing and torturing people, maybe you should invest your resources in getting a better IT guy."

Hussain dismissed his comment. "These were your friends, no? CIA I am guessing."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. Anyone can block out someone's face in the media. It doesn't mean-"

"YOU THINK I AM AN IDIOT?!" Hussain roared suddenly, his face turning a deep shade of purple red. His eyes bulged, his lips quivered. And yet Quinn couldn't help but let another smile escape him. _You fool._

"I think you and your men are amateurs. Cowards that hide behind cameras and masks. Does that answer your question?" Quinn sneered.

Hussain responded with a kick. And then another. And another. Quinn swore he could hear a rib cracking. Or two. Training kicking in, Quinn managed to grab Hussain's leg, effectively stopping his impending beating. He dragged the leg back and Hussain fell on his back yelling. Quinn did not waste a second, springing on top of Hussain, delivering blow after blow. Seeing black, Quinn rained down his fists on this fucker that had destroyed him, that had so willingly inflicted pain on him. Blood spurted out of Hussain's fat face, spilling onto his mustard top.

And then suddenly, Quinn felt himself being pushed off, arms holding his in a deadlock as he was dragged backwards. He saw the butt of the gun reach down for his forehead, and then nothing.

* * *

Nine hours and 33 minutes. That is how long the team had brainstormed. They did not answer any calls for the full duration. They ate from a cheap kebab shop across the street and had dived straight back into work. Their board was filled with possible leads. Quinn could be in any of these places, Carrie thought. Over 30 leads.

"Let's run through this again." Saul ordered.

"According to Aamir, there are over 15 main Jihad groups that are networking with ISIS. Our contact established connections with the ring leaders. They have been running operations for a year now. They pump aid to the ISIS insurgents via Ali Babi, a Syrian refugee that has migrated to Iraq. The jihad rebels are located in various houses. None of the locations have been disclosed, for obvious safety reasons. All we know for sure, is that Quinn was captured 40 kilometers from their training camp. Logistically speaking, there must be at least a few houses that are close to the camp. Since the closest town is 200 kilometers away, it's safe to assume that the three houses we have circled on our satellite feed are inhabited by some of the rebels. What we don't know for sure, is whether the rebels are holding Quinn close to camp. If they suspect he is CIA, they will know we are trying to rescue him, so logically, they might have moved him to a house further away. If that's the case then-" Carrie stopped speaking then. Her nerves were taking control again. She fought them.

_9 hours have passed_, she reminded herself. That was 9 hours of torture for Quinn. The video they had watched an hour ago was her reminder of what Quinn was living through, minute by minute. He had looked horrible. After seeing the video feed, Fara had dashed to the toilet, emptying the contents of her lunch. Carrie had managed to collapse in a chair, just as her knees bucked. Saul had turned a deadly sheet of white, and all his clever mind could muster was a "Jesus" as the trio watched at the blood splattered camera. But worse, was the water boarding. Drowning over and over again... it was the best torture technique for a reason. Watching the man she admired so much, who had saved her life more times than she could count, choke and fight to breathe was too much for her CIA trained mind. Cracks had started appearing, pealing away at her strength.

The video was their confirmation that Quinn was running out of time. Dangerously fast.

"We have the means to move in on those three houses. We can station our local agents, three per house. Unauthorized or not." Saul pressed on.

This was a big leap for Saul. They were all treading over Lockhart, using their closeness to the mission's destruction as a vantage point. From here, it was easier to send out unauthorized orders, away from the CIA headquarters prying eyes. But there would be a heavy price to pay. Saul had warned them, but Carrie ignored them. She could pay any price they want, to return Quinn alive.

"Ok let's do this. Call them over. Debriefing starts in fifteen. I want them sent out within the hour." Carrie commanded.

Deep down in Carrie's bones, she knew they were preparing for Quinn's execution. She had seen his unwavering determination, even after torture. He was not going to talk. And his captors knew that.


	5. Chapter 5

Carrie and the team had come up with a plan. It was not their best one. Running by it fifty, sixty times, numerous flaws and gaps surfaced. Yet it was their only shot.

A team of nine Turkish agents were assigned to search the Jihad's safe houses. They had just infiltrated their homes. Gun fire could be heard on the mic in the incident room. Carrie held her breath as they listened in on the operation. Fast Arabic was spoken, "Go, go, go" then more gunfire.

Carrie managed to sneak a glance at Saul. He stood tall and composed. Only his knuckles gave him away, clutched by his side. Fara was on her computer, her small intelligent eyes darting and narrowing, as she traced the agents every move. And then all of a sudden, silence ensued. It was the deadly kind, the one Carrie was accustomed to before all hell broke loose.

And then she heard the magic word and relaxed, her shoulders sagging. "All clear. We have one in custody."

The room broke out in a cheer. Saul's fist was in the air.

"It's time we spice things up with the jihads. Get them to fear us." Saul said firmly.

Carrie knew what was coming next. There would be an interrogation, and it wouldn't be a pleasant one. Time was slipping away, precious seconds which had murderous consequences for Quinn. Saul wasn't going to be gentle. She was definitely not going to be gentle with the bastard.

"What's his position?" Carrie barked down the mic.

The line cracked a little, before she heard the smooth voice of Emir, a loyal agent that had served the CIA well over these past few months.

"He is the brother of Hussain Amal, one of the ring leaders of the Jihad movement."

Carrie couldn't believe her luck. They had scored all right.

"Good work. Get him out there fast. Split the team up and search the remaining house. I have a feeling Hussain's brother will be of some use to us."

* * *

An hour later, Abrash Amal sat across from Carrie, his hands chained to the metal rings on the table. A camera was set up between them, filming his every move. Blood trickled down his forehead, a sign that he had struggled. He was surprisingly young. In his early twenties, Carrie guessed.

"What do you want?" Abrash spat out. This question was second nature to her. In her line of work, she heard it many times before. She smiled softly, and then her face hardened suddenly.

"We are hear to discuss the whereabouts of our agent, Peter Quinn." Without waiting for a reply, Carrie produced a photo of the agent, and pushed it over to Abrash. With his cuffed hands, he took hold of the photo and studied it, his expression remaining a blank.

He shook his head.

"Never seen him before."

"Let me update you on the situation. Peter was captured by a group of Jihad rebels 36 hours ago, 40 kilometers away from Albu Kamal, near the Iraqi border. I am sure you have seen the video feeds on your social media channels."

Abrash smiled slowly, recognition lighting his murky brown eyes.

"Only what my comrades have done to him. Not a bad job at that."

Carrie fought the urge to reach over and punch him in the face. Break his nose and wipe that smile off his face.

"He was never identified in the videos, but yes that's him. Who released the video?" She asked firmly. There was no time for games.

His eyebrows furrowed.

"Maybe I know, maybe I don't. Just like that man remains loyal to the Americans, I remain loyal to my people." Abrash managed a smirk.

Carrie begun to see red. She knew she was losing control. Her heart pounded in her chest and her hands shook. She placed them on her lap and balled them into fists, squeezing tightly, imagining it was Amrash's neck she was clutching onto.

"We don't want to hurt you. But we will." She said point blankly.

"The CIA acting as the government's puppet, initiating the torture and murder of our people. And at the end of it all, your country is so deluded, so convinced that they are the heroes and we are the bad guys. But do you know what I say to that?" Amrash raised his voice as he leaned over.

"I say you are a bunch of animals." And then Amrash spat at her, a big gobble of spit straight in her face. Rage, mixed with disgust consumed Carrie and she acted without a moment's pause. Swinging the chair back. She lunged at him and punched him square in the face. She punched him again, blood splattering his face, but before she could sneak in a third punch, she felt arms wrapping themselves around hers, pulling her backwards with gentle force.

"Carrie we need to go slow on him. Pull yourself together." Saul was murmuring into her ear. She breathed in and attempted to force the anger away. She pushed him away.

"Alright, Alright." She wiped the spit off her face at the back of her sleeve and then stared daggers at Amrash.

"Mark my words Amrash, you will never see daylight again. We will make sure of it. Lock you up for the rest of your life, in maximum solitary. Cooperate or not, you will never be a free man again." Carrie spoke quietly, her words hitting their target.

A flash of fear ran across the young man's features, before he quickly collected himself and inserted his confident mask on.

Saul had another plan.

"Or we can do this. You are Hussain's brother. We can send out a message to him, through you. Maybe the ring leader will know something about where our agent is. And maybe he will cooperate when he finds out who we have here in custody."

Abrash's eyes widened. "My brother will not be happy about this." His words shook as he spoke.

The fear now dominated his features. He became a shrunken man, his fear visible. _So he's terrified of his brother. Why? _Carrie asked herself silently.

"What does your brother have on you?" Carrie asked quietly.

Abrash shrugged and then shook his head fiercely.

"My brother won't risk his operation for me. Your plan is hopeless-"

"So your brother has some considerable influence over you. For you to think that." Saul was buying his time, mulling over Abrash's reaction.

Abrash clamped his mouth shut, sensing where Saul was heading.

Carrie quickly caught on, and spoke carefully, repeating the entail they had on Hussain. "Your brother works for the 5th division, the closest to the Iraqi border. His group has been associated with Ali Babi, the one that smuggles supplies to ISIS. Which means Hussain must hold considerable influence over the Jihad operations. And clearly over you."

And that was the connection. It came to her quickly, at lightning speed. For Hussain to be working in close correspondence with Ali Baba, and to be stationed right by the Iraqi border, meant that he was _the _leader. It was that simple. Who else to put in charge, but the one that directly handled the supplies across the had been staring at them in the face. But the team had acted slowly, panicked and terrified by the videos they had seen. It had momentarily robbed them off their on-the-feet thinking. Hussain must know where Quinn was. If not, he was holding him, himself. It was a guess, but a rational one. Carrie slapped her hand on the table suddenly, a large grin spreading her features.

"We know about Hussain." Carrie said slowly, treading with water. It was a gamble, to play the card that they knew who Hussain was all along.

Abrash's eyes widened.

"He is is the leader of this whole operation, isn't he?" Carrie pressed on.

Abrash lowered his head and then muttered a prayer under his breath.

That was all the confirmation they needed. A new plan started forming in Carrie's mind. Yet this time it was Saul who caught on.

"This is what you are going to do. You are going to call your brother and tell him you've been captured by the American 5A division unit. You are going to say that we have been tracking Hussain for months and know he is holding an American citizen. Tell them we want to exchange, one prisoner with another." Saul said.

Abrash shook his head again.

"If my brother is holding this American, he has no plans for a prisoner exchange. He will either execute him himself, or sell him to the ISIS insurgents. Then they will kill him. My guess is in similar style to the other two journalists that were killed on camera last month."

Dread coarsed through Carrie's veins. A chill crept up to her neck. She was smart enough to know that Abrash was not talking nonsense. Quinn might be an asset to the ISIS insurgents. They could play with him further, before forcing him to confess his role as a black ops agent, and then behead him for the whole world to witness. She willed herself to believe that there was a solution to this whole mess.

"Unless...you tell us right fucking now where Hussain is stationed. What house, tell us the exact coordinates and then we won't have to rip your fucking head off." The words came out of her quietly. Saul's plans had cracks. These rebels were trained through thick and thin, they would never let a family member compromise their mission to Allah. Abrash was their only way to Quinn now.

Saul looked at her puzzled. "Carrie if we demand a prisoner exchange-"

Carrie cut him off. "Hussain will just mock us. And tell us to cut his throat ourselves. We are dealing with extreme Islam here. Their faith comes first."

Abrash looked defiant, so certain. "Maybe you should abandon your mission. Your friend is good as dead."

The words sliced into her, tearing her apart. She took a deep breath in, and tried to hold the tears in. _Stay professional, stay professional, stay- _but she couldn't.

"I need a minute Saul." She said in a shaky voice. He looked at her alarmed.

"You alright Carrie?"

The question of the year._ What the fuck did he think?_

"I'm fine." She sniffed as she rose from her chair and walked out.

She picked up Abrash's words, "who is this guy to her?" before the door shut behind her.

The wall crumbled down as she soon as she was out of the interrogation room. The tears came flooding out of her, heaving sobs that could not be contained. She could barely see in front of her as she made it into their safe house's small bathroom. Shutting the door firmly behind her, she let the tap water run, drowning out her cries.

Carrie found herself sliding to the floor, her hands meeting the smooth numbness of the marbled floor. Quinn was not just some co-worker or friend. It took him getting captured, and being tortured to near-death for her to realize that. Her heart ached for him. She was so fucking terrified, she could not see straight anymore. Terrified of losing him. Terrified of imagining a world without him in it. Because when Brody died, she knew there was one other person she could count on. And now she was so close to losing him, all it needed was a small step and over the ledge she would fall. Yes Quinn was a cold, calculating man. He did his job efficiently, with no complaints. He was a damn good shooter and was a skilled fighter. Yet he was also human. He pulled her out of the dark depths when Brody had died. Quietly, he had made his presence known to her. He was not going anywhere. She lost count of the amount of times he had fixed her something to eat, after she had forgotten to feed herself. Or when he reminded her to take her meds. Even before Brody's death, he was the only one who had gone to visit her whilst she was locked up in a loony bin. She wasn't sure she was in love with him, but she did want him. More than once she had dreamt about him, desiring him sexually and intimately.

A knock disturbed her internal turmoil.

Attempting to pull herself together, it took Carrie a moment before she could speak. "Yeah?"

"It's me Fara. Are you alright?"

And there it was again, the golden question. Why couldn't people just stop asking her that goddamn-it.

"I'll be out in a second." Carrie said, ignoring Fara's question. She listened for a few seconds, and then finally relaxed when she heard Fara's footsteps walk away.

Carrie scraped to her feet. She summed up the courage to look at herself in the mirror. God she was a mess. Black smudges circled her eyes from her mascara. She was red-eyed and frantic.

Carrie waited a few more minutes, splashing some cold water on her face, stalling.

At last, she looked representable. Taking a deep breath in, Carrie walked out of the bathroom and marched straight into the interrogation room.

Saul looked up surprised.

"And she's back." Amrash said smugly.

Carrie had done her research. When she heard they had captured Amrash Fara had pulled a background check on him. It turns out he has a wife and two small children. Having a child herself, she did not want to do this. But she would go to any lengths to rescue Quinn.

She produced a notepad and pushed it toward Abrash. "So, it's time to cut the bullshit. You are going to draw out the coordinates of your brother's house. You wouldn't want something to happen to Amalia, Malala, and Kali, would you?"

The words were like a bombshell to Amrash. He pulled at his cuffs, his eyes widening as his lips quivered. "You wouldn't." He warned.

"I fucking would Amrash. I am not playing games with you. Hussain doesn't care for you. We all know that. So why stay loyal to him?"

Amrash closed his eyes and then muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"N 13°47.58429" That was the location of Hussain's location last week. But they usually switch places just as a precaution." Amrash said.

Carrie was surprised at how quickly Amrash conceded. It seemed to easy.

"If this is a trap, I will personally make sure your family suffers." Carrie said point blankly. She prayed that Amrash could not see past her lie. Thankfully, he did not.

"NO, NO. Ok, this is the address. But like I say, they switch locations regularly. You have to believe me, please." Amrash pleaded.

Saul gave her a quick look over. He was impressed. She could tell.

"Ok Amrash. We will have the place checked out. You just stay put."

And just as abruptly Carrie had entered, she marched out of the room. She did not waste time bursting into their meeting space, yelling out orders to hear team before she could process them herself.

Hope gleaned in Fara's eyes. "There's a chance he could be there, right?" She asked, a hint of excitement in her voice.

"Yes there's a chance. Not a big one, but we have to take it." Carrie said. A small smile spread across her lips. She had Quinn to thank for his interrogation skills. After watching him on numerous occasions, she had picked up a lesson or two.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning around, she was met with Saul's worried eyes.

"You ok Carrie?" He asked.

"Stop asking me that. Or better yet, maybe I will answer once we have Quinn safely back with us."

"I just want you to go in with a clear head." Saul spoke cautiously, as if he knew how fragile she was.

"Clear head? I have a clear head. Look at what I just got out of Abrash." Carrie said furiously.

"I mean with Quinn. Even if we get him back Carrie... he's been through a lot. He might never be the same again." Saul's words were like a blow to her stomach. She stared at him in a mixture of anger and fear.

She wanted to dismiss his words. But deep down, she knew they were the truth. She turned her back on Saul and focused on the team.

"We want all our local agents in on this. Emir heads the op, with me supervising on ground."

"Did I just hear that correctly?!" Saul snapped.

Carrie turned to face him, determination holding her together. "That's right Saul. I'm in charge of my entire team. Do you think I am going to sit behind a computer whilst they are risking their lives to save Quinn? No fucking way. I am in on this."

Carrie knew what Saul was going to say. _What about your little Stella?_ She pushed the thought away. As much as she loved her daughter, she needed to do this, in order to live with herself. She had to give it her all, for Quinn.


End file.
